


The Night Before

by orphan_account



Series: The Oxfordshire Chronicles [1]
Category: Lewis (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:54:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before Greg Lestrade, newly demoted and shipped off to Oxford, starts his new job, he meets a man at a pub.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night Before

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mazarin221b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/gifts).



> Not mine, no money. Beta'd by the lovely Mazarin221b and Annie Talbot who help me keep all the ships afloat.

Greg is drunk. Not out of his skull, just nicely pissed. And okay, it's probably not the wisest state to be in the night before he starts a new job, but what the hell. He can always stop tomorrow. Liquid courage, right?

The packet of cigarettes sits on the table in front of him. 

Of course the pub garden is a Non-smoking area, but just beyond the wall he can see a lone man blissfully smoking and nursing his drink. 

So if the need becomes too great, there's relief within reach. 

Greg takes another swig of his pint. It's a warm summer evening and he thinks he could get used to drinking in Oxford. 

No, he could get used to _living_ in Oxford. 

Well, it's not like he has a choice, is it. DCI Innocent taking him on like this, after a nasty divorce and an official reprimand that could have been a lot more serious. At least he still has a job: Detective Sergeant Lestrade. And maybe there's room for advancement on the Oxfordshire force. 

He shakes his head and takes another drink. 

Tomorrow. He'll worry about that tomorrow. Tonight is for enjoying the fragrant evening, the dreaming spires, and the bells. Unbidden, a line of Edgar Allen Poe springs into his head, _…the tintinnabulation of the bells._ Susie'd always thought herself an academic. 

Maybe he would have a smoke.

Just one won't hurt. 

The man is still smoking by the tree when Greg gets there. 

"Excuse me, do you have a light?"

He's blond, tall and gangly. Rather cute, too, Greg notes. 

"Of course." 

The ritual of taking a light from another person is comforting. 

"Greg," Greg introduces himself. 

"James."

James' hand is warm against his as he lights Greg's cigarette. The touch is deliberate, Greg is sure. 

It's also welcome. Very welcome.

James quirks his mouth in an answering smile. Greg doesn't need Sherlock's observational skills to see that James is interested, too. 

Not the best way to start your tenure in Oxford, Greg reminds himself, but really, he doesn't care.

Career crumbling, wife gone, Sherlock dead… 

Yeah, what's one more mistake? 

James is erudite, far beyond Greg's poor power to keep up – his vowels as cultured as Sherlock's. He doesn't seem to mind Greg's London accent, though. Or his interest in football. 

They do find that they share a taste for racquetball and James mentions the gym where he plays. 

"Bit out of shape," Greg admits. "But it might be good to get back on the court."

James smiles again – if it can be called that, more of a twitch of the mouth, but he does shift a bit closer to Greg, their thighs brushing. 

"Are you on the court often?" Greg asks. 

"If that's some kind of euphemism," James replies and Greg's heart sinks a bit. "Then, no. But it doesn't follow that I'm not interested."

Oh. _Oh_.

* * *

Greg thinks that maybe this isn't such a good idea. 

But James is a consenting adult and so is he. 

And James kisses him like the world is ending. 

Greg can run his tongue up the long scar on James' cheek – press his lips and tongue and teeth to his neck and feel him shudder. 

Greg can pretend that the pale limbs belong to someone else. 

Greg can pretend that the light nipple that he's licking and teasing, the broad chest that he's pressing kisses into belong to some other man. 

James' cock is hard in his mouth, the bitter taste of precome on his tongue. 

God, Greg wants this. He wants it all. 

The mirror in the bedroom hides no flaws. 

"Fuck me, please…"

Greg grins wickedly against James' shoulder. 

"Kneel," he whispers in James' ear. 

He pulls James back against him, settling on his knees as he slides his fingers, slick with lube between James' buttocks. 

It doesn't matter if the head that falls back against Greg's shoulder is light and not dark, as one finger, then two slips into James. 

What does matter is the body shuddering over him, the gasps and the bitten off "fuck" as Greg presses into him. 

It's clumsy – the first time Greg's fucked a man since Sherlock, the first time he's had sex with anyone in over a year – but he doesn't care, as he fucks him shallowly, allowing James to rock back against him. 

James gasps and exclaims. 

The words are strangled as James fucks himself on Greg, as Greg reaches around, takes James' cock, heavy and hard in his hand, and jerks him. Christ, was that _Latin_? Greg doesn't care. He watches their reflection in the mirror – the blush spreading down James' chest, the trail of light hair from his torso to his groin, his cock, red and leaking. 

James' head jerks up and unerringly, his too-pale eyes meet Greg's. 

"Oh, _fuck_."

James' lips are red and swollen, his face flushed. 

" _Yes._ " 

He doesn't take his eyes from Greg's as he stiffens and comes all over Greg's hand. 

Greg answers with an inarticulate grunt as he shudders and thrusts again and again and as James leans forward, he follows until he's got James' hips in his hands and is fucking him hard and harder. 

James' head is still upright, but now he's biting his lips. He won't look away, though, as Greg fucks him through his own orgasm, not daring to break his gaze. 

James' back is slick with sweat as he pulls off Greg, who gasps and manages to salvage the condom. 

"I'll take it," James says, straightening up with a wince and Greg grins with a sudden spurt of sympathy. 

"It's been a while for me, too," he confesses to James, who freezes for a moment before flashing Greg another one of his tight smirks before retreating to the bathroom. He returns a few moments later with a damp washcloth. 

"Ta," Greg grunts as he wipes himself off roughly. 

"Cigarette?" James asks in a voice so neutral it could cool tea. 

"Thanks; one for the road, maybe?" Greg asks. His body is screaming at him for sleep, but he refuses to allow it to relax. The red digits on James' alarm clock already read past midnight and he'd rather not look like hell tomorrow – no, later today.

"Of course."

James' hands are cool this time as he lights the cigarette. Greg takes a drag and pulls his pants and trousers on. His shirt is tangled and he curses around the cigarette as he tries to untie the sleeves. 

"Let me," James says, taking the shirt. He's still naked and while Greg's not _that_ randy, there is a spark of desire that still flares within him. 

To sleep beside that body. To take it into his mouth and hands in the dim light of dawn. 

"Thanks," Greg mutters which earns him a third smirk. 

"And… thanks," Greg says awkwardly, struggling into his shirt. "It was…"

"Agreed," James says and almost as if it's against his better judgment, he leans in and kisses Greg fiercely. 

"So, I'll um… see you round?" Greg asks as James pulls on a pair of shorts and walks him to the door. 

"Yeah," James says. "Good night."

Well if that's not a brush off, Greg's never heard one. 

And if there wasn't a world of subtext in that last line, Greg thinks as he shoves his hands in pockets and walks home, he's not a police detective. 

Except he isn't, really.

* * *

"So please welcome our newest member of the Oxfordshire constabulary, Detective Sergeant Gregson Lestrade," DCI Innocent says at the morning staff meeting. 

Greg flinches a bit at the _full_ name, but he's not about to correct her. 

The whole force isn't there to witness his introduction – just the support staff and most of the DIs and their sergeants. Of course some of them would be off on cases, or just flouting their chief's instructions to attend _another_ staff meeting. In fact, through the window of the conference room, Greg can see a pair – a DI and his DS, from the look of them striding along the corridor. The DI has grey hair – a man in his early fifties from the look of things, and his DS is… James. 

Oh, Christ. 

Greg can almost _hear_ Sherlock's ghost laughing at him. 

Fortunately, the meeting is adjourning, and Greg is being swept up by his new DI, Rebecca Clifton – a no-nonsense type who is _exactly_ what Sally Donovan will end being in about five years – he could have done a lot worse. 

Also fortunately, murders seem a bit light on the ground at the moment, and so Greg and DI Clifton are stuck in her office, filing old paperwork. This is perfect for Greg who would very much like to stay hidden in an office until he can decide if and how he should approach DS Hathaway about last night. 

He's on his knees, fighting with the copy machine when he finally makes his decision – he'll say nothing, let Hathaway bring it up – _if_ he brings it up at all. The machine is completely jammed, and Greg's ready to thump it when he feels someone come up behind him. 

"Let me," James says.

Greg twists and looks up at him. 

James isn't smiling. In fact, he's practically quivering with tension. 

"Thanks," replies Greg. "I think I've managed…"

"Of course." James… Hathaway jerks his head and walks away. 

Greg allows his head to fall against the side of the copier. 

"Fuck," he mutters.

He's never felt so alone or so stupid in his life.

* * *

Against his better judgment – but really, when has he ever displayed anything remotely akin to better judgment over the last five years – Greg finds himself back at the pub where it all began.

There's a packet of cigarettes on the table in front of him and not much of a pint of bitter on his left. He's counting this time, at least – number two and then he's done, he tells himself. 

"Excuse me," a cultured voice breaks through his reverie. "Do you have a light?"

Greg looks up at James, looming over him. 

"Yeah, here," he says. And he can't help feeling completely dazed – because things like _this_ don't happen to Gregson Lestrade. 

He lights James' cigarette and the two of them move past the low wall with their glasses to the designated smoking area. 

"Greg Lestrade," Greg says, offering his hand. "Late of New Scotland Yard. Bit of an embarrassment to them, I'm afraid. Your Super's owed a colossal favor by taking me on."

"James Hathaway," James returns the handshake. "Late of Cambridge. Degree in theology. I work with DI Lewis. I'm the one who keeps him from arresting _all_ the toffs."

"Nice to meet you, James."

"Likewise, Greg."

Darkness creeps upon them as they sit beneath the tree, wreathed in cigarette smoke, drinking quietly in the soft summer evening.


End file.
